Tag Archives: motherhood

I used to make a real point to write on the old blog a few times a month. Then once a month. Maybe. Give it a shot.

Not it’s like, twice a year.

It’s not like I gave up writing. Frankly, it’s all I ever do. If I’m not writing an actual story for an actual newspaper, I’m writing notes and lists and texts and emails and thoughts and ideas and facepage posts. I’m telling the kids when I’ll be home and telling old Jimmer what’s for dinner and telling myself not to freaking forget to take in the taxes yet there they sit… on the counter… I still have 15 days, don’t judge me.

I’m busy.

Not crazy busy.

But busy.

Enough that it took me a solid 10 minutes to figure out how to make a new post because all my neat-o wordpress options have changed.

So it’s no surprise that the passage of time has prompted me to have a good hard think about the passage of time.

“Are you going to be sad when I go to high school next year?”

Actual words from my actual child’s mouth. He’s going to be a freshman in the fall.

Bring on the woe is me, the “oh noes my baby boy,” the fear upon the realization that he’ll be legally behind the wheel in just over two years.

But then I saw some mommy blog crap, and my fears of “cannot believe my baby is growing up” came to a screeching halt.

Now, just a disclaimer. I really dislike mommy blogs. Like. A lot.

Probably the biggest reason that mommy blogs grind my gears is that they always appear to be written by women between the ages of 25 and 35 with only toddlers underfoot. They want to share their sage wisdom or hilarious stories of failures now that they are experienced moms with all the answers.

Even though they don’t yet know the horror of the 45 minute shower. Or wondering where all the hand towels went. Sippy cup problems are pretty ridiculous when your teenaged son morphs into a Disney princess sprawled across the bed shrieking “YOU DON’T KNOW!”

And I haven’t even hit real dating and high school dramz yet.

I often see mommy bloggers as embellishing storytellers with tales so ridiculous and way too long that sound like they come from jackasses who changed their email addresses to DylanandXandersMommy@Ihavenoidentity.com

Scary Mommy is the worst. If you Google “Scary Mommy Truth” you get 420,000 results, with hits including “the truth about divorce,” “the truth about having a third child,” “the truth about snow days” and my very favorite, “the universal truth of motherhood.” Spoiler alert – according to that post, the universal truth of being a mom is that we never again get to use the bathroom alone. Which is a hella lot of bullshit, get some god damn control over your home and your children and piss like a civilized human with the door closed, it literally takes a few seconds. My lord.

There’s also a “confessional” which rivals the Penthouse forum. It’s really weird.

So Scary Mommy and her sister blog sites share those DOWN TO EARTH truths about motherhood that I don’t identify with at all. But at the same time, these things have something like a bijillion readers so obviously people like it and whatever, it’s just me. Others relate so that’s cool.

But yesterday I spotted this one – NOT Scary Mommy – and it irked me off more than usual:

Featured on the “Message with a Bottle” blog, I have to admit, I didn’t get too far into this one. Because the very first lie that this 30-something mom refuses to tell herself is this:

I will no longer pretend that I’m young

Age really is relative, isn’t it? No matter how many 80-year-olds point a finger at me and proclaim, “YOUTH,” there need only be one 20-something to remind me that I’m pretty much ancient. Go hang out with someone fresh out of college if you doubt me. They’ll be like, “Let’s do shots!” and you’ll be all, “Ugh, just a half a glass of wine, please, that’s all I can handle tonight.”

I throw the bullshit flag on that so hard that I throw out my shoulder and dent the ground with the thing.

First.

Moms.

ENOUGH WITH THE WINE. What is this nonsense where moms are like “oooohhhhh lookey at MEEEEE I love wine!!” We get it, your kids drive you to drink. Newsflash, this started about 16 generations ago. Get with the times.

But second, and far more important, is this crap:

“I’m pretty much ancient.”

I get it. Hyperbole. Hilarious!!!

Now stop it.

For one thing, I didn’t go around in my 20s taking shots every night of the week, and I happen to know a lot of 20-somethings, and they don’t either. I had a job. Then later, I had a KID. Those shot-takers who you cannot keep up with? They aren’t 20-somehtings, they are drunks. No one likes a drunk, not even a recent college grad.

But more importantly, it actually puts true sadness in my (apparently ancient since I’m not even a 30-something mom, I’m a fragile 42-year-old) heart to hear young people lament the loss of their youth, even in jest.

If your age is 30-something… you’re not old

Also not old — 40-somethings and 50-somethings. If you’re 60-somethings, you’re on the threshold. Maybe.

Why do people do this to themselves, this “I’m so old” nonsense. Of all the ways I love to poke at myself, age is not one of them. If you’re already doing the “oh my *deep sigh* I’m soooooo old” and you’re just in your 30s, how the hell do you expect to chase around your teenager. Because trust me — you NEED to chase them around.

You’re too old in your 30s? Aw, honey, middle school moms are going to EAT YOU ALIVE.

I’ve been thinking a lot about the passage of time, realizing that my little ones are not so little anymore.

But I’m reminded daily that while I’m 20 years out of college, I’m young as all get out. I don’t need to be 20-something to be young. I just need to be alive to be young.

My kid is going to high school next year. I look forward to him trying to keep up with his young mom.

He followed behind me through the Target, trudging ever so slowly, his small feet stomp-stomp-stomping on the linoleum, something obviously amiss.

“What is it,” I crabbed through a yawn.

“I just… I thought I’d get a prize,” he said, stone cold serious.

“A prize????” I said, shocked. “For what?”

“For dancing with you,” he said, looking down at his slow, stomping, untied shoes on his slow, stomping, little boy feet.

But he was serious as a heart attack. Eight years old, that tear in the corner of his eye threatening to escape right on out and down his cheek. We’d spent 90 minutes at the annual Mother-Son Fall Ball, you see. There had been line dancing former woo girls recapturing their college days with eyes closed while they forgot for three minutes that they were in the cafetorium of the elementary school. There were at least three moms who didn’t realize that it wasn’t a full on formal event. There were banana clips. We had to hear what the damn fox said.

But for a brief minute, Stevie Wonder sang some mellow, comfortable, soothing Stevie Wonder song, and that boy came and grabbed me by the hand, and let me swing and sway right in the center of that makeshift dance floor, where at one point I even dipped him low and smothered him with wet kisses right there in front of his friends. Surely that’s worth a prize. Say, a Lego, retail price, $25. Why else would he have asked to stop at Target under the guise of “I’m hungry, can I get a snack.” We needed milk anyway.

It’s getting away from me, this childhood thing. Just like my Mama said it would. I won’t say that it’s blink-of-an-eye fast, but the things that I thought were just NEVER. GONNA. END….

…middle of the night wake-ups

…toddler sized clothes

…believing in magical creatures

…cuddles

…wanting me

…needing me

It’s fading. It’s fading fast.

There was no “mother” in the Mother-Son Fall Ball. I joked with one of the other moms that they should sell alcohol. And we both went, “ha ha… ha ha ha….. a ha ha.. ha…”

*sigh*

*throat clear*

*look around*

*sip lemonade*

*look at it disgusted because it’s not spiked*

*wish the alcohol fairy would appear*

*smile at one another*

*look at the air*

We really were just there to drop our kids off, and watch them run around the cafetorium for 90 minutes, and occasionally hand them a dollar bill to go and buy another glow stick like some learning curve into the raves of tomorrow. I suppose whatever it is that the fox says would be hilarious if I had some mind altering medications in me…

I digress.

My fun and free party days gave in to these days of motherhood, of poopy diapers and midnight wake-ups and sore boobs and screw it I’m bottle feeding I’ll just lie to the breast-feeding Nazis because FOR THE LOVE my nipples are bleeding and carry on and carry through and first steps and first words. My fellow women-folk and I read the books and did the work on our relationships and made MORE babies (because of the alcohol) and did it again and took on more than we should because as it turned out we could and dammit we were good at it.

But the funny thing is, while we were busy preparing for babies — leaning to install car seats and to put them to sleep on their backs and testing nipples (for our filthy bottle feeding habits!!) and becoming oblivious to the vomity smell of the boppy wondering if we’d ruin them for life with an exersaucer versus the walker — no one even ONE time told us that we’d need to prepare for things like the Mother-Son Fall Ball. Or MAP testing. Or weekly spelling tests. Or parent teacher conferences. Or the extended phone call you’d have to have with an English teacher who’d marked on your seventh grader’s paper that the event he’d written about – the 1989 San Francisco earthquake – had never happened (totally true story).

One day they went off to pre-K, and it was so adorable, you pretty much wet yourself. You fail to realize how quickly it stops being so cute. That the 100-day project and Flat Stanley only go so far into a kid’s academic career.

Suddenly you’re left still with these little kids. But they sure aren’t your babies any more. They’re youngsters who want a prize for dancing with you.

“Isn’t he so amazing, he’ll be all grown before you know it,” my mother would say, her annoying words carving like a scratching bug right into my earhole.

Seriously, lady, why are you rushing him?

Why are you rushing along the mop top toddler-hood like I’ll forget all about it?

See. Still as little as always. Only not so much. Now, they want prizes for dancing with me.

I hate it when my mother was right.

So we made a deal. First, the selfie. The proof that there was in fact the Mother-Son Fall Ball. He wore a tie. I bought him glow sticks. I was his date. He lost a tooth just for the occasion. We danced. It wasn’t the longest dance, but it was a magical one. I sang when Stevie Wonder sang. He rolled his eyes at me. He let me kiss him in front of his friends.

He got his prize. One messy pre-packaged, terrible for you salty snack pack, and one (not $25, more like $3.99) Lego. He did, after all, dance with me.

And there is still this:

The little one and the big one, the big one almost there. The tips of my fingers just ever so slightly reach over the tippy tops of his. For now, this week, for the moment, my hands, these hands that once could hold both theirs inside the palm of my own, are still bigger.

The lady who lived across the street and a few houses down was turning 40. FORTY! I thought, how is she not dead? She was turning 40, and her husband got up early and erected a big old sign in the front lawn.

“Good Lordy, Whats-her-name is 40!”

(I can’t remember what her first name was, I am certain he used it though, and did not call her Whats-her-name.)

I heard my Mom and the biddies some of the other upstanding adult women from the neighborhood gossiping engaging in intelligent conversation based only on facts and not conjecture about the big four-oh for Whats-her-name, and it appeared that her gift back to him for his surprise was a nice packet of divorce papers.

Forty-year-olds, I thought, are weird.

Huh.

I really wondered if I would not handle 40 well. Would I curl up in the corner denying the age process? Would I do something stupid to prove I’m still young (I mean, I am — go ask a group of Baby Boomers if they think 40 is old) like jump out of a high place with only a hand-sewn piece of rayon to keep me from splattering to earth? Would I storm into Forever 21 demanding service?

As it turns out, though, I’m not even a little bit annoyed. I’m so unbothered to be 40, the only thing bothering me is why I’m not more bothered. I think, maybe, it’s helpful to be the youngest of five. When everyone goes through it first, including one of them hitting the big FIVE-oh before you even get to FOUR-oh…

…well, then maybe you just aren’t as annoyed or scared or desperate to divorce your husband at 40 like old Mrs. Whats-her-name was.

I did wake up with a sore hip.

But rather than LAMENT the passing of time, I decided to take a look back at the last decade. Did I spend my time wisely in my 30’s? Was I properly mature and responsible while still being fun and full of awesome (I think we all know it’s a resounding YES to the awesome part, but that’s just a given). Did I properly leave my 30’s as a graduated member of the Generation X Dirty-30 Club, as well as an honored and respectable alumna of Volvo-Driving Soccer Mom University (those might actually be the same thing).

In pictures, I think, it looks like I had a good time.

Let’s take a look!

Age 30 ~ I couldn’t find any digital photos, so at a minimum, I really AM showing my age. Here I am with a sweet two-year-old Hank.

Age 31 ~ Fulfilled Mom and Dad’s dream by finding some fool to marry me and take me and my kid off their hands. They actually would have preferred if I left Hank behind, but as it turns out, he was Jim’s dowry.

Age 32 ~ I spent most of this year with a baby either in my uterus or attached to a bosom or hip.

How cute is George?

And how enormous are my jugs?

Age 33 ~ I looked sexy in yellow.

And I inappropriately sat on Jesus’ lap.

Age 34 ~ I continued the family tradition of getting your father drunk, and looking uncomfortable at the fair, and making sure to suck in when you stand next to a pregnant woman for a photo so you look extra skinny!!.

Age 35 ~ 8th Grade reunion? Yes please! It’s weird that I’m the only one in the photo proudly holding my beer, right?

And of course, we took this sweet shot with Brendan. Big dumb loveable jerk.

Age 36 ~ Kayla and I got dressed all sassy and took photos and went out boozing. It was just like the decade before, only we came home at a reasonable hour because it’s only wise to get a good night’s sleep.

Age 37 ~ The ladies of the Chick Shack visit the big cracked bell. Like you don’t want to party with us. After George graduated I made him get a job, then I relived my younger days by driving to Kansas City on a whim for a ball game with Kayla. Where we again got a decent night’s sleep so we would be refreshed for driving home the next day…

Age 38 ~ If there is one year where pictures show my endless battle with my weight, it’s age 38. First I ran and drank.

Then I took more photos with this fatty.

Then we ruled the field at unaffiliated minor league ball park.

And I mud raced!(this left quite an ass bruise)

And I turned into the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man, but at least I finally got to see Ireland!

Age 39 ~ Determined to get my body back in a shape other than round. First I ran another 13.1 miles without even being chased.

Then I held hands with the KGB.

Models became my besties for a brief moment in time.

I died.

I conquered!

So as you can see, I think I took advantage of all the things there are for a woman in her 30’s to take advantage of. I reproduced. I suckered a man into marriage fell in love. I got fat. I got less fat. I went places. I met new people. I exercised. I saw historical artifacts! I made Kayla take photos with me TWICE while pregnant so I looked skinny. I had just a few drinks.

And I managed this:

Granted, this might be more meaningful at 46 or 51, but I was excited, yo. Because Fatty Marney didn’t fit in that a year ago.

So how did 40 start?

Eating breakfast take-out while checking out my new John Denver Greatest Hits album while wearing my Mrs. Kenny readers.

If the Valentine’s story was not enough, I also found this, a true and vivid picture of my exemplary job as a mother. Entitled “Our day at the pumpkin patch,” this one came from October 16, 2007:

Here’s a little story about a day in the life of this Mom and her boys.

Yesterday, we all head over to the fabulous Dollinger’s Pumpkin Farm for an afterschool field trip. First, we rode the train. It sure was nice of the Pumpkin Farm Lady to put me, Hank and George in the caboose. The caboose that was designed for 5 year olds. I was sooooooo excited that I got to crawl into a tiny little car while attempting to drag George behind me. Good thing I was wearing my low-rise jeans so everyone could get a good look at my crack!

So, after the ride, and after I gracefully squeeze my way back out of the caboose, we head over to the pumpkin patch and park. Hank wants to touch farm animals. Well, you can take the girl out of the suburbs, but you cannot take the suburbs out of the girl. “No way, man, that’s disgusting” I announce to my child. Naturally, I say it loud enough for all to hear. The other mothers, whose children are practically embracing the goats, look at me in disgust, as I have just announced that I am better than they are. I slink away.

Off to the playground. While Hank is off running around with his friends, me and George explore the playhouse. Little Thomas, a preschooler, decides to play too. Thomas thinks that pushing an 18 month old is FUN! “Don’t do that,” I say nice and stern to Thomas. I look around. His mother cannot be found. I assume she is off smoking a cigarette somewhere (what else would a woman who is 7 months pregnant be doing?). Thomas pushes George again and tries to slam the door of the playhouse on him. I turn into the protective Mama bear. I yell at Thomas loud enough that his mother looks up from taking another drag with one hand while rubbing her belly with the other. Thomas runs away. I smile with satisfaction, hoping that the pregnant slacker smoker will say something ridiculous like “don’t yell at my child!” She does not.

Hank has now disappeared to the sandbox, where he is pretty much taking up all the room and the smaller children cannot play. “Come out of there!” I shout. “Go play in the haystacks with your friends!” He obeys. Hank runs to the haystacks, where he, Kyle and Nickolas decide to play king of the hill. Hank is doing quite well, he even pushes off a 4th grader! Woo hoo! Well, Kyle has had enough of losing. He gives Hank a good old heave. Hank tumbles over the side…. and promptly screams bloody murder.

Ever the loving mother, I snap at him to stop screaming and calm down. His cries are more of annoyance than pain, and he is clearly just having a fit. “Knock it off or we’re leaving” I growl at the child. A few teachers come over. “He’s fine,” I let them know. Well, he won’t quit his complaining, so off we go, NO PUMPKIN FOR YOU!!!!

During the ride home, the wailing really revs up. “Calm down, Hank” I nag over and over. Halfway home, I turn to look at him. He is crying silently, in sheer pain. “Oh crap” I say. We wait at home for half an hour for Jim to get home from work, then I get Hank back in the car to travel to the mystical city of Kankakee, to a wonderous place called the ER. The radiologist calls him in, and there on his wrist, obvious enough for even me to see, is a crack. The child has broken his wrist.

Out of guilt, he gets McDonald’s. Out of pity for myself for being the mean mother, I too get McDonald’s.

A friend of mine on the facepage made a suggestion to me and some other gals: Wouldn’t it be fun to post some side-by-side pictures of our kids, then and now, just to really see how much they’ve grown?

Uh, YEAH! I thought to myself. And *joy of joys* Jim just bought a fancy new scanner/printer so I can use all those photos I have on film (since I am a total hag).

BUT WAIT! I might have some pictures of the boy as a baby after all, saved in a file in my e-mail. So I start scouring through the old e-mail folders. And what I discovered is, I was blogging before I was blogging.

Here, a story I wrote and sent to some relatives and friends about the special men in my life, back on February 15, 2005:

After a long two weeks of working several double shifts at the United Center, I finally had Monday off. And how perfect: Valentine’s Day! I decide that because he is such a good man to put up with me and all my “special moods”, I should make Jim a nice dinner. So, after running a few errands and a quick visit to Grandma’s house, I decide to get started.

First, I put Hank at the table for a late lunch of chicken nuggets, corn and milk, yummy! Then I pull some frozen whiting out of the refrigerator, planning a delicious meal of broiled lemon-peppered fish, garlic mashed potatoes and green beans. A smile crosses my face as I realize we even have an unopened bottle of wine, hooray!

I turn to check on Hank, still happily eating his lunch. But he is instead picking his nose.

“Stop that,” I say, in a motherly tone with no profanities at all, of course.

I turn back to my fish, which I realize I still have to scale. But, that’s ok! I look again at Hank, his pointer finger wedged far up his right nostril. “Stop that,” I hear myself say again. Ahh, these two pieces of fish are perfect. I better check on him one more time. This time, pointer finger and thumb wedged into that tiny right nostril.

“That’s it,” I say, walking over to him. It is then that I notice there is something in his nose. I lean over, and upon further inspection of my beautiful child, it is not simply a little snot, but several pieces of corn wedged up his nose.

“Mumble, mumble,” I say. I proceed to push on the sides of his nose, sending kernels of corn shooting out of his nostrils as if they were tiny cannons. At one point, he sneezes, sending two yellow bullets out of each nostril, landing on my shirt. After several are ejected, I look into his nose, only to see one piece that is hopelessly lodged deep inside. He is now crying, coughing and a little bit scared. So into the car and off to the ER we go.

The ER is completely congested with cases of the flu and a few broken limbs. “My son shoved corn up his nose,” I say as quietly as possible to the triage nurse. She makes me repeat myself, louder. She laughs. I sulk away to a seat, realizing at this point that I hurried out of the house, and my hands still smell like raw, unscalled fish. About an hour later, not having been called yet, my angel points to his nose. I look up, and joy of joys, that kernel has worked its way down, enough for me to squeeze his nose and send the last bit shooting out. Several people around me laugh. I consider making the child eat the remaining piece of corn, but, fearing that he will think it tastes good, I wrap it in a tissue instead. It is at this point, our name is finally called, but we do not need to see the doctor.

Upon our arrival at home, Jim was forced to order and pick up his own pizza. The wine remained unopened and the fish went back into the freezer. Valentine’s Day has never been so romantic.

Love, Marney

PS, there was no lesson learned by young Hank, by the way. Just a few hours after this incident, I caught him trying to shove Cheerios up his nose. Boys are gross.

Many moons ago, on May 10, it was a Sunday, and that day was Mother’s Day. Also on that day, my mother entered the world, kicking, screaming, naked, and mad as hell. Just like every Saturday night since she was 20.

Today is my Mom’s birthday.

I have often complained about my birthday in relationship to Christmas. It’s too close, no one wants to hang out, no one wants to buy you a present, they JUST. GOT. DONE. with all their holiday spending. Bah. But it really did not dawn on me until today that my Mom’s birthday is exactly the same. When she was a kid, if her birthday fell on that Sunday, that must have been sucko. And once she became a mother — which was entirely too young for today’s standards and I’m not being judgy but seriously maybe my Pops could have been brought up on charges — her birthday was a birthday/mother’s day combo no matter WHEN it fell. One gift and done. It’s for mother’s day – AND – your birthday. Enjoy your maccaroni fish picture frame!

How rude was THAT?

Well, here are some truths about my mother:

She calls me ‘Baby Girl.’ Now granted, I pretty much picked out this nickname myself. But she and my Pops picked up on it. Because I am. Their baby girl, I mean. I walk into a room, and I hear, “Oh, Baby Girl is here!” And you know what? That’s kind of awesome.

I adore my Mom. She is a pain in the ass of epic proportions. I mean, where else could I have possibly gotten it from? But I adore her honesty. She does not know how to sugar coat what she is telling you. And sometimes you need that shit.

My Mom is the most generous person you will ever meet in your life. She will strip herself naked for you if that is what you need. She will be the unlikely voice of reason when you least expect it. She really *does* have eyes in the back of her head, and she SEES stuff, even when she keeps it to herself. There is no age where I stop craving her approval. There is no time when I am too grown up to need her. There is no place in life where she is too busy for me, even when I have been too busy for her for weeks on end. She will never not want to see me, or my boys. She will never be empty-handed even if we ask her to be. She will never let you pick up the check. She will never have nothing to offer. This is who my Mom is. Generosity in its purest form.

I do not tell my mother nearly enough how very much I adore her, how generous I think she is, or how loved she is by her children and grandchildren. I let the gifts get wrapped into a single birthday/Mother’s Day gift, which hardly seems like it is ever enough.

I know several people who have lost their Moms, most of them way too early. And I know I take mine for granted. But I really do know how lucky I am to have Patty Carey as my mother. Because my Mom is a beautiful lady. And I’m not just saying that because I look like her.